


everybody loses, we all got bruises

by luminoussbeings



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon Era, Friendship, Gambling, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-13 09:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminoussbeings/pseuds/luminoussbeings
Summary: With the strike over, everythingshouldbe back to normal. But sometimes things don't work out the way they should.(or: the boys survived the strike. whatever happens next, they'll deal with it, together.)





	1. Chapter 1

Twilight falls fast and dirty in New York. Half-past eight and the sun’s already slipped below the horizon, slats of greasy lamp light spilling across the boarding house floor. Just bright enough for a card game, but just dark enough that you could _almost_ miss the manic glint in Race’s eye as he sweeps another round into his pile. Almost.

Jack doesn’t miss it. Then again, there’s not much that he _does_ miss around here, even with all this new blood murkin’ everything up.

Ever since the strike settled, the house’s been crawlin’ with unfamilar faces. Some of em’s shinies, for sure, but surprisingly enough, just as many turn out to be veteran newsies from other boroughs, dropping in to share a round of cards or shoot the bull over a bit of grub. Unheard of before the strike—that is, unless you wanted to be laid up for a week on account of crossin’ the wrong turf. But that’s the funny thing about a common enemy: all that hostile energy finally gets itself an outlet, and boys who would’ve come to blows a month prior suddenly find themselves best of pals.

Or, in some cases, as Jack suspects while watching Spot dig a playful elbow into Race’s ribs, whispering some foul joke that makes the other boy cackle as he slaps down his cards— _better_ than pals.

But that's none of his business.

Racetrack, sensing Jack’s eyes on the game, looks up and raises his cards in open invitation. Jack waves him off, tipping his head and reclining against his bunk to show that he’s content to watch. He’s long since learned that a bet against Race is a bet against your wallet—a lesson the poor new suckers are gonna be finding out the hard way.

Mush’s sprawled across the floor, scratching at a crossword, while Buttons scrubs away at the muck in his shoes and Spec’s long limbs dangle from the top bunk as he half dozes. The nighttime noises and occasional yelps from the poker game blend into a peaceful cacophony, as familiar to Jack as the city itself. Everything’s as it should be. And yet.

He’s tried to ignore it, hoped it was just his imagination, but there’s...an unmistakable undercurrent among his boys. A sobriety that never used to be. They’ve grown up, all of them, far sooner than they should’ve ever had to. Hell, Jack can barely _look_ at Crutchie without hearing the sickening smash of crutch against bone, without seeing the naked fear on his face as they hauled him off to the Refuge. It tore a hole right out of Jack, it really did, a space that still aches like a phantom limb. More often than not, that’s how he’s been feeling all over, come to think of it—empty and hollow. Like a pitcher of water that somebody poured out for the table and forgot to refill.

The only time he’s really felt like _himself_ , lately, is when Davey’s with him.

He doesn’t want to think too hard about what that means.

A knock at the window sets a grin on his face that he wipes away just as quickly. Davey, as if summoned by Jack’s very thoughts themselves. Bounding over to the fire escape, Jack unhooks the latch and throws it open, no longer bothering to hide his broad grin because _screw it_ , he’s missed his friend. “Well, well, well,” he crows as he pulls the other boy into the room. “Look who finally decided to stop by, eh? You forget about us, Davey boy? I’ll try not t’be offended.”

He’s only half joking. It’s been nearly a week since Davey’s sold with them, no warning or nothing to precede his disappearance. Jack’s spent every day since trying to convince himself that Davey _hadn’t_ gone back to school and immediately realized he could do better than mucking around with a bunch of street rats. It mostly worked, but still—it feels damn good to have him back.

It’s only when Jack claps a hand to his shoulder and Davey _flinches_ that he realizes something is terribly, awfully wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for descriptions of injuries

“Davey?” he asks again, anxiously this time. Davey’s shoulders are still bowed from squeezing through the window, his face shadowed and turned away, but Jack can see the soot smudging his pale jaw, the twitch of his lips as they work out a response.

“S’alright, Jack,” he finally mumbles. (Mumbles? That can’t be right, Jack thinks, the unease mounting in his stomach; the Walking Mouth definitely didn’t earn his name by _mumbling_.) “Just a little tired, that’s all.” He gives a halting sort of shrug and brushes past him into the room. 

“ _Tired?”_ Jack repeats, staring incredulously after the back of Davey’s head. Jack’s seen _tired_ —flopping back onto a bunk after a hard day’s selling is _tired_. Falling asleep in your galoshes because you haven’t the energy to untie them is _tired_.

This is somethin’ else.

“Hey, Dave, wait up,” Jack says, striding after him, just as Race looks up from his game and _yelps_.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Mouth! What crazy sonuvabitch didja piss off enough to get _that_?”

 _What?_ His pulse quickens as Davey makes a small, noncommittal noise, and he rounds in front of Davey in a smooth motion.

His stomach drops to the floor.

Without shadows to obscure it, Davey’s face is a nightmare. Bruises cling from his jaw to his temples, deep and dark and vicious. (Of _course_ it wasn’t soot on his face—Davey was always much too careful for that.) A spiderweb of purple climbs the pale line of his throat, shadowy reminders of a clenched fist, and it makes Jack’s own breathing hitch reflexively.

But the worst is his eyes.

When Jack first crossed with Davey at the distribution line, three things stuck out to him: the carefully mended patches on his shirt, stitches still fraying at the elbows, his tie, fastened tight up to his neck like he was afraid of losin’ it, and those _eyes_.

Deep brown and sparklingly present, they shone with a sharpness that Jack had immediately known he didn’t want to run against. Sure, he’d _told_ them he wanted their partnership because of Les—and it definitely didn’t hurt, the kid was a natural—but really, all it took was one glimpse of the newcomer’s bright gaze. And he was certain.

(Later, it would be those same eyes that followed Jack home at night, etching into the fabric of his dreams. Those same eyes that burned like an afterimage when he woke, an accusatory glare in the dark—a harsh, silent witness, cold judge of both his rush of euphoria and inevitable well of shame.)

But now—but _now—_

Davey’s eyes are a dead, dull black as they meet Jack’s. All gleam of wit, all spark of life—gone. Snuffed out like a candle under winter wind.

Weeks ago, as he’d watched, helplessly, while they beat Crutchie into the dirt, Jack had at least comforted himself with the grim knowledge that his heart could never possibly be broken even further.

He’d been wrong.

“Oh, _Davey_ ,” is all he can manage, his voice a scraping whisper, and David drops his gaze.

“ _Jesus_ —”

Someone jostles against Jack’s shoulder, and instantly, the boys are swarming them.

“Jus’ tell us the name, Davey boy, we’ll soak ‘em—”

“I’ll bet it was them Delancey bastards, those cowardly, thieving, sons of—”

“—Mary and _Joseph—_ ”

“—heard the new warden’s got a real nasty streak—”

“—need t’ get ‘im to the ‘ospital—”

With each word, Davey seems to sink a little bit more, crumpling like an evenin’ pape slogged along on the wheel of a carriage. Jack’s about to raise his voice and tell the boys to quit it when Davey’s lips open.

“ _No_ ,” he forces out, and the boys fall silent. “No, I’m alright, honest. Looks a lot worse than it is, y’know?” He gives a watery smile that no one returns, then sighs with a sound like cracking glass. “I jus’ need,” he begins again, brokenly, eyes flitting back to Jack and then away again, “a place to spend the night.”

The other boys look on confusedly—Davey already _has_ a home, unlike the rest of them—but Jack just nods and takes Davey’s arm, fingers feather-light, and leads him to his bunk, the others clearing their way as if under a spell.

For once, the house is quiet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented last time! It means a lot and thanks for reading!
> 
> I realize this chapter was super depressing but THEY WON'T ALL BE I PROMISE... I love my boys too much for that.


	3. Chapter 3

Davey wakes to an unfamiliar bed and the layered, heavy sounds of breathing. Slitting his eyes and curling his head into the pillow, he frowns slightly and tries to sort through this mental dissonance—last time he checked, Les definitely didn’t snore like _that_ —when his eyes adjust enough to make out the boy sprawled across the floorboards, newspapers stuffed under his head and cap cradled loosely in his arms. Jack. But why—?

His eyes fly fully open. Oh, _hell_. Groggy confusion gives way to sharp-edged panic as the past few days come tumbling back in searing clarity.

Monday. The shouting. Les pressed up into his lap like when he was a toddler, eyes wide and terrified. Tuesday. The slam of the door. Bottles shattering against the wall, the sound incongruously lovely, the glass falling like an amber-soaked rain. Wednesday. His mother’s eyes holding one last appeal— _Come with us_ —before she pressed a kiss to his temple, gathered up Les, and walked out the door.

And Thursday— _Thursday_ —

Friday morning. The terrified stumble through the still-dark streets of Manhattan, wandering every back alley and ducking away at every shout of the headline—by God, he couldn’t let them see him like this—until at last the sun started to dip and he couldn’t fight it any longer. Muscle memory drew him like a magnet to the boarding house window, to the one face he both craved and couldn’t bear to see.

The face that he watches now, safely tucked behind the veil of sleep, nostrils flaring with every little breath. According to the old cliché, sleep ought to make Jack look younger, but all Davey can see is the worry carved in the furrow of his brow, the tension tight in his jaw that no amount of rest can loosen.

All at once, guilt floods him, hot and sickly. Jack’s dealt with so much, for so long—no wonder he’s exhausted. And here comes Davey, dumping yet another burden onto Jack’s already toppling lot. Hell, he even took the poor guy’s _bed_.

 _No_. A wave of certainty overtakes him, and he slips quietly from the bunk. This is Davey’s problem and Davey’s alone. No one else—not even Jack, _especially_ not Jack—should have to shoulder this, too.

He’ll be alright, he thinks, carefully skirting Jack’s sleeping form. He always is, isn’t he? He’ll scrounge up some money for a stamp and write his ma—or better yet, find himself a carriage to stow away on—make it upstate on his own grand escape. Maybe someday the boys will be telling stories about him, too—the one that flew away, perhaps not on the back of Teddy Roosevelt’s carriage, but—he allows himself a small smile—maybe, just _maybe_ on Rockefeller’s.

His fingertips brush the iron latch when a voice stops him.

“You walkin’ out on us, Dave?”

Davey stops cold. When he turns around, Jack’s propped up on his elbows, eyes sharp despite his sleep-scratchy voice.

Davey clears his throat. “See—”

“ _Because_ ,” Jack continues, “funny thing. When you’s pals with a fella—when you’s _family_ —and that fella shows up at your door beat to an _inch of his goddamn life_ , well. You’s. You’s gonna be a little _worried_ , wouldn’tcha think?”

“Jackie, I ain’t—”

“An’, an’, _say_ ,” Jack interrupts, voice rising, “say that _hypothetically_ , this fella decides to duck out on you the next mornin’! Not a word or nothin’! Just up and disappear, without letting a pal know if he’s hurtin’ or bleedin’ or—or—”

“ _Jack._ ” This time, Jack falls silent, and Davey can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Around them, some of the boys are beginning to stir, lifting their heads from their pillows and watching the scene with interest. Davey swallows and shifts his weight uncomfortably. “How’s about you an’ me clear this up outside, alright?” His fingers drift once again towards the latch and Jack’s eyes follow, narrowing slightly, like he’s half-expecting Davey to bolt at any second.

Jack watches him for a long moment. “A’ight,” he finally decides, pushing up from his spot on the floor. “Let’s talk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Super busy with college apps and SATs and all that but I'm trying to get this out asap! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Raised voices wake Racetrack well before dawn. This, by itself, isn’t an entirely unusual occurrence—newsies are generally belligerent by nature, and the close quarters definitely don’t help—but even so, his fuddled mind tells him there’s something _off_ about this particular altercation.

It isn’t until a few seconds later that he realizes what. That’s _Jack’s_ voice he hears—Jack, who hasn’t once quarreled with one of his boys since becoming Manhattan’s leader. Sure, he’ll joke around, give a telling-off when needed, and every fella has to disagree _sometimes_ , but on the whole, Jack seems to realize that his role demands a certain maturity above that of throwing a fit over being last in line for the tub.

It’s a quality Race’s always admired, mostly because he’s not sure he could do it himself.

He lifts a bleary head to peer over the side of the bunk. Sure enough, his ears weren’t deceiving him—it’s _Jack_ down there, arguing with—oh. _Oh_.

Sinking back into his pillow, he figures he should’ve known. Jack may have his rules for how to act around other newsies, but to him, Davey was never _just another_ _newsie_ , was he?

Not that Race can blame him. Davey’s a handsome fella—if Race’s attentions weren’t already firmly fixed across the bridge, he might’ve made a move. And, he thinks smugly, Jack, that poor, _hopelessly_ repressed sonuvabitch wouldn’t have stood a chance.

The room sucks in a mouthful of cold air and city clamor before the window clangs shut, and only then does Race remember about Davey. What happened to Davey. _Shit_. He groans into his pillow, feeling not unlike the city’s biggest asshole—what kind of person thinks about _this_ sort of stuff when his friends are bleeding right below him?

 _Race_ is the kind of person, apparently. Maybe that’s why Spot never sticks around— _no_. He cuts himself short. Spot must have his reasons. Reasons he’ll share, eventually, that don’t have anything to do with Race’s character defects. Because it’s not like he didn’t already know that he wasn’t as compassionate as Crutchie, or as book-smart as Specs, or a natural leader like Jack—but Jesus, _really_? What, then, is he good for, if he can’t even claim to be a good friend?

His fingers jitter restlessly at his sides. He feels it again. That itch. That restless, driving need to go downtown, to blow off an afternoon at the tables and spinning wheels. To lose himself in the pounding of hooves and thunderous crowds and feverish odds. That, he thinks, somewhat desperately, _that_ is what he’s good for. The irresistible risk, the thrill in his veins— _that’s_ where he belongs.

Not here. Not _here_ , where all he’s got is an empty bed and a seemingly limitless capacity to disappoint himself.

“Racetrack?”

He blinks. Somehow, he’s already down on the floor, sliding into his shoes and tugging on an overshirt. Albert squints at him from the darkness of his bottom bunk.

“Race, circulation’s not for another few _hours_.”

“No, I know,” he hears himself say. “I just...got some things to take care of. Tell the boys I won’t make it today.”

“Won’t _make it_ —hang on, what sort of things? You okay, Racer?” Albert asks, alarmed, but Race’s already out the door, one foot on the bowed wooden steps of the boarding house, the other at the tables. In his mind, he hears the _tick-tick-tick_ of the spinner, feels himself lean toward the wheel like it’s got him by an invisible string. Chalk dust and smoke coat his lungs and cloud his vision, but they can’t obscure the roar of the room as he wins, he wins, he wins.

And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—he needs a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off can i just say that y’all have no idea how much your guys’ comments mean to me and how many times i reread them before I go to sleep or when i'm stressed out. im so bad at responding to things so this is my big blanket THANK YOU and i appreciate all of you so freakin' much for reading and sticking along!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for homophobic language/depictions of abuse

Darkness holds the early morning streets in a jealous grip. Raccoons slink from garbage bins, tiny hands fisted protectively over their hoards, and shadows trail from the few pedestrians like flowing black cloaks. It’s these that Davey watches, gaze unwavering, as he gives Jack an abridged version of the past few days.

When he finishes, the roar of the wind rises to fill his silence. For a moment, they’re both quiet, listening, before Jack blows out a long breath and joins him at the railing.  Davey’s pulse climbs in his throat, palms slick despite the chill, and he fights the urge to be sick. Somehow, saying it all out loud—even what little he said—only makes him feel worse. As if, when all of this only lived in his head—not cast onto a fire escape in concrete, irrevocable words—it was less real.

He risks a sideways glance. Jack’s skin is stretched white over his knuckles, but his face is a mask. His eyes find Davey’s just as Davey slides his away.

Fear strikes him, sudden and piercing, that Jack won’t believe him. Davey gets the feeling that Jack’s never been too keen on trusting anyone, period, and to have lasted this long as Manhattan’s leader, he must’ve built a pretty sharp bullshit detector if he hadn’t one already.

It’s not that Davey’s _lying,_ exactly. Because it’s _true_ that his father’s temperament's been growing increasingly sour since the accident mangled his leg. And it’s _true_ that the more time’s dragged on and the more Mayer Jacobs looked for solace at the bottom of a bottle, the more Davey and Les took to staying out of his father’s way. And it’s true that this week, the simmering tensions between his mother and father finally boiled over in steaming proportions. Ma, at least, had the good sense to take Les and wait out the storm at her sister’s house upstate.

But Davey had insisted on staying. Because despite everything, it was _also_ true that Mayer Jacobs was still his father. Still the same man who’d carved little wooden toys for each of his birthdays and sang old folk songs when he was sick and laughed with the strength of an accordion’s bellows, deep and throaty, when bitter old Frau Heller down the hall leaned out her window and accidentally knocked half her knickers off the clothesline.

The father he knew—the father he _loved_ —could still return. And if Davey could just sell enough papers, if he could just save up enough for a real doctor to come and fix everything—his family could be happy again.

So he’d crept from his room early Thursday morning with the intention to ask Weasel for two hundred papes. He’d hawk to every person in the whole goddamn city if he had to.

But that morning, his father was in the kitchen. At the table. And when his bloodshot eyes focused on Davey, his lips twisted into a slow, curling smile that made Davey’s blood freeze.

“Well, wouldja look who it is,” his father slurred. “You again. Why’ont’cha tell my _son_ to come back, huh?”

Against his better judgement, Davey stopped. “Pop,” he said carefully, “Les had to go away for a bit. But soon—“

“Not _Les_.” His father punctuated the word with a fist to the table that set bottles rattling and Davey nearly jumping out of his skin. “Not Les,” he said again. “My _son_. My _firstborn_. David.”

Davey stepped closer, eyebrows drawing in confusion. “Pop, I’m right here.”

His father regarded him with a baleful eye. “You’re not my son.”

Davey was seriously beginning to worry now. Mentally, he combed through the books he’d read for science class, trying to remember anything about dealing with delusions and coming up blank. “Pop, it’s _me_ , it’s Davey, _I’m_ your son—”

“If you was _really_ my son,” his father said, voice suddenly as sharp as the shards of glass at his feet, “then you’d work a _real_ job ‘stead of runnin’ off everyday with that fuckin’ fairy boy, Kelly, now wouldn’tcha.”

A hole punched right through him. He sucked in a breath, trying fruitlessly to stem the tide of panic—what his father was implying meant—no, he was just looking for cheap shots, that’s all, because there was no _way_ he could—

His father laughed, low and ugly. “Oh, I _know_.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Davey’s voice wavered. “Jack’s not—and I don’t—we sell _papes_ , for Christ’s sake! If you’re tryin’ to imply anything about his character, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

His father seemed to consider. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, and Davey felt himself relax infinitesimally. “Maybe it’s _not_ that Kelly boy—maybe it’s just _you_.”

All the air in the room disappeared. Davey was going to suffocate, here, in the middle of the kitchen.

“That’s right. I seen the way you looks at him,” his father continued, eyes heavy-lidded, fingers clawed over the lip of a bottle, “and no son of mine is a goddamn _queer_.”

Without meaning to, Davey flinched.

That was all the confirmation his father needed.

His eyes flicked to the door, just beyond the kitchen table. He could make it. He was faster—

He was faster. But in the end, it wasn’t enough.

***

He wonders, now, if Jack will see through him. Will see past his carefully constructed half-truths and omissions to the very heart of it—because if Davey was obvious enough that even his _father_ picked up on it—and during a single dinner, no less—then how could Jack, eagle-eyed, ever-watchful, always-vigilant Jack—possibly miss it?

The wind bites at his face. On the streets far below, a boy darts from corner to corner, heading downtown with a single minded focus. Davey watches the shadows lengthen and tries not to shiver.

“How long,” Jack grinds out.  

Davey’s heart skips a beat. “What?” he asks, schooling his features to remain carefully neutral.

“How long’ve you had to deal with”—Jack makes a frustrated noise, gesticulating widely—“with all _this_? All by yourself? While I’s been sittin’ here pridin’ myself on knowin’ everythin’ that’s goin’ on— _Jesus_.” His voice breaks. “Davey, ‘m so sorry—I should’ve noticed earlier, I should’ve done somethin’ to help—”

“Wait, no, that’s not—”

“And no wonder you was walkin’ out this mornin’—hell, I would too, if I was in your shoes—”

“ _Jackie_ ,” Davey says, grabbing Jack’s hand and tugging him away from the rail to face him. “Listen to me.” Jack’s eyes flick to Davey’s and then down to their still clasped hands, his expression odd. Flushing, Davey quickly lets go. _Nice going, Jacobs. Way to tip him off even more._ “I didn’t tell you for a reason, okay? You’ve got enough on your plate without me adding my lot. I can handle myself.”

Jack’s gaze slants to the side, his voice low. “An’ you think I wouldn’t have _more ‘_ on my plate’ when this just goes on and on ‘til I finds you, you—dead in a ditch or somethin’, huh?”

Davey’s annoyance surges. “Christ, Jack, you don’t always have to be so _dramatic_. Why’s it so _goddamn_ important that I told you?”

Jack paces the short length of the balcony, eyes trained on the staircase. For a moment, Davey thinks _he’s_ gonna be the one to bolt—and then Jack turns to face him, surprising Davey with the agony on his features. “ _Because_ —do I really have to spell it out?” Davey lifts an eyebrow and Jack heaves a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “ _Fine_. Because I... because you’s _important_ to me, alright?” His voice softens. “I care ‘bout you a whole lot, Mouth. And I don’t give a damn what else I got goin’ on—nothin’s more important than you. Nothin'." He holds Davey's gaze, steadier than he's been all morning. "That clear?”

 _Oh_. A bright spot of warmth opens in Davey’s chest, unfolding like the sunrise just now suffusing over the horizon.

“Yeah,” Davey says, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying to ignore the lump growing in his throat. “Crystal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like twice the length of a normal chapter and i banged it out in half the time so like...yee haw for the rare burst of productivity??? 
> 
> thanks for reading and comments keep me going so thanks a million for those too!!!


End file.
